


A Christmas gift

by Sadsnail



Series: Dumbledore Insert [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Christmas Fluff, Families of Choice, Family Drama, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25933522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadsnail/pseuds/Sadsnail
Summary: Inserted into Dumbledore and de-aged to a four-year-old child, SI decides to fix it all. Snape is there, playing hapless father to the little eager beaver.— 8 yr old Albus Snape does his usual thing and it’s Christmas. But he is sorry. Really.
Series: Dumbledore Insert [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579501
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	A Christmas gift

I was feeling very oppressed. The best thing to do when in such a mood, I found, was to lie on the floor and refuse to move until it passed. I’d prefer it without an audience, but currently Bat Dad was standing over me, scowling something fierce. I ignored him. My bedroom ceiling was a much more attractive sight, the seventh year transfiguration class having had a go at it the year before under Charlie Weasley’s direction. Dragons flitted about the clouds breathing fire, their agitation fitting my black mood.

It happened now and then, especially when I had dreams of a former life in which I was an adult where no one was constantly telling me where to be and what to do. I did not remember any of my life while awake except that I had one. Being an adult always seemed such a wonderful thing that the next few days would be a struggle to me, where even Bat Dad’s most gentle reminder to brush my teeth before bed grated. I wanted agency!

“Agency to walk around with rotting teeth?” he asked. “I can assure you, you would not like the potion.”

Yeah, because he made them taste disgusting on purpose. The one in St. Mungo’s when I had broken my arm tasted like a double fudge chocolate sundae; I would break my arm every day if I could be sure to go there and not to Poppy. “I did not say I won’t brush my teeth, I just don’t want to be reminded of it.”

“Yet here you are, nearly in bed, having forgotten.”

Only because I was distracted by him telling me to pick up my toys, not because I was the type that didn’t brush my teeth. Any kid anywhere in the world would have played instead. And why to put it away if I was going to play again in the morning, it just seemed silly. I told him all of that. “So really, you are to blame.”

“Albus.”

“And if you let me sleep later like I want then I would actually still have had enough time before bed to brush my teeth twice. I’m eight!”

Bat Dad scoffed at this. “I don’t see much difference from seven. I still find you on the floor more often than not.”

He never saw any difference. Every year. It was a thing with him. “It’s because you can’t let me be.”

“You seem to think having agency proposes the absence of structure. Also, part of having agency means you take responsibility for your actions, good or bad, and don’t search for the blame in others. That said, I might extend your bedtime by half an hour if you manage to go a week without needing any reminders.”

“An hour.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Dad…” I stared up at him aghast. After all these years you would have thought he could learn how to haggle properly, was that too much to ask? I asked him anyway.

“It will be ten next. Take it or leave it.”

“I don’t want it,” I said, getting up. I was not interested in playing the game. Either I slept a good deal later than eight or not; I felt too old today to have to earn a better bedtime. “I’ll go brush my teeth now so you can rest your head. Oh, how you must be wasting your days worrying over every silly little thing!”

“Don’t be a brat.”

* * *

The next days weren't any better.

It was Dad’s turn to stay at school for the Christmas holidays, so there was to be no big family gathering for us. Flitwick had offered to stay in his stead but he had grandchildren and Dad had said it was not fair either. Which was fine if not for the fact that quite a few students were staying this year and all of them rotten. Well, they were. Roaming all over, ignoring curfew and playing pranks, keeping Dad so busy with their nonsense that he didn’t tolerate any of mine. Instead, he flooded me with a never-ending list of chores and school work, ‘to keep me out of trouble’ as if I was the worst of them, which was not any way to spend Christmas week.

I had taken to slipping away at every opportunity and not talking to him in retaliation. And on the day that he grounded me for filling a foot long parchment with a poem on how much I hated him, instead of my conclusions on our study of the effects of cold on muggle versus magical flowers, I lost it.

There was only one way to get back at him. Not pausing a moment to think, I dug into the gifts under our small Christmas tree for the one I bought him months ago and threw it in the fire.

We froze.

His face did something complicated and I braced myself for a massive chew out.

“Go to your room, Albus. I’ll send your dinner there.”

That knocked me for a moment but I rallied quickly to shout, “I was going there anyway!” I stomped off when in fact I wanted to run away from whatever that was going on with his face. Why hadn’t he said anything? And why had I done that? His calm, non-reaction had the opposite effect on me. At my bedroom door, I turned and yelled: “I hate you! No need to ground me, I’ll stay here forever then you don’t have to worry at all!”

And I slammed the door as hard as I could. To no effect. Dad had long since cast an anti-slamming spell on all our doors and I had to kick it twice to get rid of my frustration before bursting into tears, clutching my bruised toes.

* * *

A time-out when I felt adult, no matter how vaguely, was ridiculous. With no interest in anything else, I took a bath and got in bed, and shame had me hiding under the covers when he brought my dinner in. It was stuffy under the blanket and my stomach growled at the mere thought of food. “I don’t want to eat.”

The tray clunked down on my bedside cabinet. “Do you want to come out from under there and talk about it?”

Now he wanted to talk? He hadn’t even noticed that I stopped talking to him two days ago when he didn’t allow me to go fly with the students because he didn’t have time to watch me. I clutched the covers tighter and told him to go away.

He did.

Seriously? He didn’t even try! It nearly made me not eat but that would be cutting my nose to spite my face, and it was my favourite pie and chips.

When I was smaller my defense was to bite. You couldn’t do that when you were eight years old, even I knew that. Dad came to fetch the tray after what felt like hours and I hid again but this time he sat down on the edge of my bed, and pulled the blanket off my head to talk—and I punched.

“No.” Bat Dad caught my fist before it could connect with his thigh and held it. “If you are going to start hitting I will ground you forever,” he said.

It was a ridiculous thing to say and might have been from exasperation but I did not care, my momentary remorse fled and I countered it with an even more ridiculous one. “If you ground me forever then I will run away!”

That was a very bad start to the Talk.

And the rest was not any better for a while.

I wasn’t complaining about being stuck in school for Christmas I was complaining about having school for Christmas and being ignored more and more, why were the students getting all his attention? It took him some time to understand me, but when all was said and done he agreed that I might have had enough reason for a fuss though he would have preferred it had I used my words. There would be no more studies, and no punishment while on vacation, and he would let me go play and fly with whatever student would have me without wanting to supervise every minute. And he would make time for me.

I had never broken or thrown anything in a fit of anger before and that was the only thing that saved me from an Extended Talk, he said when he touched on that subject. Everything might not have been exactly great yet but I was willing to do my part. In case you wondered, I did apologise.

Later, well after he had gone off with the tray, I realised there were three days left until Christmas and I had burned his gift. Once I was done crying about it I spent half the night worrying and counting my coins only to realise my finances were dismal, but by morning I had a plan.

* * *

“No, we are not going to Floo to Diagon Alley just to get me a gift,” Dad said after breakfast. We were in his classroom, I was not the only one getting on his bad side lately, he had three lions and a snake scrubbing cauldrons for an hour and was supervising from behind his desk. Unlike me, they got no special dispensation for the holidays. “I am old enough that I don’t need gifts at every occa—”

“But—”

“—occasion, Albus. You can write me a—”

“Apology letter?”

“If you continue interrupting me it will be one soon, yes. What I meant to say was a Christmas letter or card.”

“Sorry.” A card! That’s so four-year-old me. I pulled a face and crossed my eyes until he told me to go play. Which was great, I just had to make sure he was going to remember what we had discussed. “No following me, no supervising, and you have to remove the watch.”

“I’m keeping the watch and you need to be back in time for meals.”

“Dad! It’s spying, I’m already eight!”

“And I’ll remove it when you’re eighteen.”

Oh god. I can just imagine going to school and a stray spell in DADA endangering my left big toe and Bat Dad flying in to the rescue. I played my best card. “It’s embarrassing,” I told him, standing on tiptoes to hug his neck tight. I lowered my voice, eyeing the students at the line of sinks along the back wall. “Everyone knows and they’re laughing at me already, I’m sure…”

“You are exaggerating,” he said but after a long moment reached for his wrist and unclasped the leather to what looked like a normal watch, but which clipped up to a hidden Albus tracker underneath the face. Then, to my consternation, he clasped it around my wrist. “I’m trusting you to be sensible here. Don’t wander off, don’t rush headlong into the first imbecile notion that fills your head.” He resized the watch-strap with a charm. “And with this, you will have no excuse not to be late for meals.”

This was a huge step for Dad and I was in awe. I couldn’t thank him fast enough. “Really, you don’t have to worry, I’m a snake more than a lion and when was the last time I skipped a meal? You won’t regret it, I promise! I’m going to play right now!”

He called me back from the door and sent me to our rooms to put on my coat and boots, then followed to make sure I had my gloves, hat, and scarf. He nearly ruined all his progress with his mothering, wanting to put a heating charm on me also, but I let it pass.

It was a great day. The air was cold and crisp, the sky was blue, and the snow was just perfect for a protracted snowball fight that lasted well until lunch. Which I was on time for. Then I scarpered again for a game of Quidditch.

You can’t be friends with the Weasleys and still dislike flying. I was no great shakes at it but I could stay on a broom which was all our free-for-all games required. Enough firsties were staying for Christmas that I didn’t feel too dwarfed by all the older kids and it was excellent fun.

By dinner, which I was on time for again, I was exhausted and ready for bed on the last bite. Even so I still made a point to request a delay, and tried to stretch it to at least 9 o'clock, hiding my yawns. These things took time and perseverance and Dad gave points for perseverance if nothing else. Though he does say I have yet to find the fine line between that and nagging.

“You are really unfair,” I told him, tucked into bed with a minute to spare. “Other parents let their kids stay up as long as they want on holidays at least.”

“If you want to go live with this mythical other parents you have my blessing,” he answered blithely, and tucked the blankets tighter around me. “Sleep.”

Later, he would remember his words and jump to all the wrong conclusions which was a lesson for both of us—but mostly him, really, it was not as if I said it—to pay attention when we spoke. Suffice it to say it would cause him to have a horrible day full of worry and guilt for that reason, while I was having a horrible day of my own for another.

* * *

Then there was one day left until Christmas and Dad’s gift was still just a little heap of ashes in our hearth. Reparo’s do not do anything for ashes. Outside, a blizzard was raging, Dad was off yelling at the Hufflepuffs who had somehow made their dormitories a jungle full of flesh-eating _everything_ , and with no other options I settled down in my bedroom to make him the best card ever.

Artistic I was not. Halfway through I had glued three fingers together thanks to the wonkiness of my sticking charm, and I was reconsidering my decorations. Bats were more Halloween, but maybe if I cut out some red Christmas hats and added tinsel to it, it might work. I could get someone to animate it and make it squeak a song or something. It was looking better by the minute…

It was not. It looked horrible, I cannot for the life of me understand why he would even want it. I mean, what will he do with it, show it to others? They will laugh. Display it? We didn’t have any rats we needed to scare away.

I fell backward on my carpet and groaned. On my ceiling, the dragons were fighting a copy of the storm outside. For once they provided no entertainment. I moaned again, if only he let me buy him something else… And that was when my eyes fell on the botany textbook I had shoved under my bed. _Blizzard flowers._

Oh my god, Bat Dad would love to get rare potion ingredients, and this one would be extra special since it only came out in raging blizzards. I bet if the stupid Hufflepuffs hadn’t kept him busy he would have been out searching right this minute.

There was not a moment to lose. I jumped into my snow gear, I didn’t actually need him to remind me of things like scarves even if he thought so, and packed a backpack with specimen jars nabbed from his office. If I played it fast I could sneak out and be back with him never the wiser and wouldn’t ruin the surprise.

* * *

Any activity that needed sneaking was one I should refrain from, according to Dad, and usually I would agree but this was for a good cause so it didn’t count. I made it out of the castle uncontested but not unseen. There was the one student who saw me slip out, and she would later at my missed lunch relay the fact that I carried a backpack, but that she hadn’t paid it much mind, thinking I was off to bury something.

According to eyewitnesses Dad had looked positively astonished at that line of reasoning, which definitely put her in the student hall of fame, and later, when all the dust had settled I heard him question Flitwick on what his Ravenclaws were up to. The backpack made Dad jump to his own silly conclusions.

Of course, I knew nothing of that then. Once I was outside, I made a beeline for the Forbidden Forest, plowing my way through the deep snow. For a while I had thoughts to turn back, the storm was ice cold despite my winter clothes. Walking against the wind was more of a struggle than I had anticipated, and above my head, the clouds hung a scary black.

They had closed the forest off when I was younger and you now needed a password to move through the magic barrier, not an issue for a teacher’s kid who had sharp ears. This was the first time I used it though. “Balderdash!” I shouted when I bumped into it, half-blinded by the snow sticking to my glasses, and I fell through.

The storm raged on and the snow was knee-high in places; which according to the texts was the perfect conditions for the flowers to be picked. I struggled on towards the wood, near breathless, until at last, I reached the dark forest. 

Inside I found immediate relief. The trees were so dense above me that there was no wind, and what snow managed to penetrate fell in a soft flurry, the spread barely coming up to my ankles. I took a few moments to get my breath back, and the stillness and my exercise making me feel warm now, I became brave again. I set out to find a pond.

The forest was quiet, the fall of snow dampening everything to a hush, and it was just my crunching progress to be heard. Hopefully anything scary would be more scared of my noise and stay away, but I did not spend too much time thinking about that. I needed to get in, get the flower, and get out before I was missed. Gifts were not fun if the recipient knew what they were going to get.

I picked a direction and marched off. I was looking for a pond where I would find the Black Blizzard Beauty growing in the very middle of the ice, hopefully in full bloom. If the storm wasn’t strong enough it would be closed and of less use to Dad than a daisy.

There was no clear path that I could see. I knew Hagrid had made some, and students went on excursions into the forest from year five onwards, but all was covered by a blanket of snow and the only tracks were mine, a shallow trench forming behind me. Well, at least I would be able to find my way back. I tried to stick to where there were the least trees which must surely mean a path of sorts, but quite often I had to struggle between branches, pushing them out the way, being pelted by clumps of snow for my troubles.

Back at school, lunch had started without me. Dad had sorted the Hufflepuff issue and was starting to feel guilty for leaving me alone the morning before Christmas.

Meanwhile, in the forest, I realised I wouldn’t even know if I was walking right over water and that the book didn’t say if the Black Blizzard Beauty would be uncovered; for all I knew I would have to dig. I started to strain myself to look for any black spots and spent the next while swearing at my frosted glasses—Dad had better be thankful for the effort I had gone to!

The quick in and out plan was bust. Some areas were impenetrable and I had to go back, crossing my tracks and try different routes. Down here was no wind and I was getting uncomfortably warm from all the activity. I took a break to lie down on the snow and watched the sky through an opening in the branches. The dark clouds looked like a first year’s vigorously stirred cauldron and I was sort of happy to see the storm still going at full strength, though I was frankly starting to doubt the wisdom of my plan. How did I know I was going in the right direction if I didn’t even know where any ponds were? And for that matter, I might have been walking in circles the whole time.

Realising that I was wasting time I sat up and noticed the snow, though falling softly inside the forest, had already covered my clothes nearly an inch thick. I groaned. Cold and stiff, I scrambled up to start my search anew.

It felt like I had been there forever. My stomach growled and I dug out the candy I had packed for a snack. I was still wearing Dad’s watch and I feared I might have missed lunch but I didn’t want to look at the time to confirm it. Sometimes it was just better not to know.

Just as I realised I hadn’t seen any animals yet, a deer startled out of a brush, nearly giving me a heart attack, making me fall back flat on my butt. I wheezed. Then laughed. Then choked when I saw a dark mass towering above me, opening its maw to swallow me whole and I screamed, cowering into the snow.

Nothing ate me. For a long time, I sat quaking with my eyes screwed up tight, waiting for the end, but it did not come. Finally, when I could not stand it any longer, I opened my eyes, searched for my fallen glasses, and looked. I was an idiot. It was only a burned-out tree, its dead branches casting shadows overhead.

I was cold, wet, tired, embarrassed, and my heart might never beat normal again. That was it, I would turn back. The card would just have to do. I scrabbled back up, my whole body as stiff as a Nimbus 2000–and that’s when I spotted it.

Slick, spiky black petals opened to the sky, it grew in the middle of a little ice sheet, untouched by snow; it seemed to be deflecting the storm, no, _it was absorbing it._ Eating it! It looked evil. Dad was going to love it.

An expert potions gatherer by now—how else with Dad in control of my studies—I gathered it, root and all, leaving only enough for it to grow again, and carefully closed it in a specimen jar.

By now I had given up on being on time for lunch but I was still hoping just to be a minute or so late. Going back would be the easiest, I only needed to backtrack my steps, and I did so. For all of five steps. I slithered and slid off the icy little pond only to stop short at the bank. A thin dusting of powder had started to fill my tracks and I cursed with fervour, realising my mistake. The forest slowed the snow down, it didn’t actually stop it, and now it was a timed race.

The nice thing about magic was it naturally worked to provide wizards and witches some manner of privacy. Tracking spells only worked within a certain distance, listening spells can easily be countered, scrying was an imperfect practice, and even watches only let the bearer know the watched person was in danger, not where they were in danger.

Once, a year ago when I had nearly been eaten by wolves, Dad had sent his Patronus ahead to find me and saved me in the nick of time. It worked because I was close enough. I had also not been in a magical forest that blocked all tracking spells, warded they said by the centaurs. This all meant that at the castle Dad had no idea that I went into the forest. Who would do such an idiotic thing in the middle of a blizzard? he had thought. Even Albus had his limits. No, he thought I had run away, the backpack proof, the guilt at not paying more attention to me today, and the memory of his silly quip fueling this belief.

While he was out contacting all the people he thought I might have gone to, I was starting to realise I was lost, totally unaware of his plight. At one point I did hope he might have missed me and would come any minute to find me, but at the same time knew it might have been better if he was still busy in the Hufflepuff dorms, none the wiser.

The tracks were impossible to see now, and I was left to roam in hopes that I might stumble on the edge of the forest. At first I figured if I just went straight I must reach something, but it took so long that I started to worry that I might be walking in circles like they said you did, so then I deliberately walked in circles to cancel that out until that became too much of an effort.

Cold, hungry, and miserable, with barely any strength left to put a foot in front of another, I finally dared to look at the time and saw it was near dinner. I was a dead kid. If I didn’t die here, I would once Dad had found me, and to make sure I unclipped the watch face to see the Albus tracker firmly pointing to Mortal Peril. What will it be? Will I freeze? Roam for days until I expire of hunger? Be eaten by an animal? Did any of it matter? I stumbled for the so manyth time, and this time when I fell to my knees I stayed there, ready to sob—

“You must be the Insert,” someone said above my head.

“Yes.” I could make out animal legs in front of me, and considering my plight decided I was hallucinating. The deer was hours ago and as far as I know they didn’t talk. Hallucinations came before you died, didn’t it? “If I die, do I go back?” I asked, I honestly couldn’t remember. Dad said we had written it all down but that I can read it when I’m an adult, that my head was full enough for now, though at the moment I could barely think straight. I was tired and just wanted my bed.

“We know not enough of your world to tell.”

“Okay. I will sleep then—”

“Ah, I do not think that is wise, come, let me help you back home.” Hands reached down and pulled me upright and then the centaur kneeled next to me, instructing me to climb up on his back.

A centaur! I gaped stupidly at him. He looked young, with a muscled gray body, and had dark black hair. “You’re a centaur!”

“Yes. Can you get on my back? The storm is not over, and this is not a place for a young human.”

I hesitated before his size. Only when he promised I would be warm did I climb onto his back with his assistance, and it was indeed warm, heat radiated from his body, and I leaned forward to press myself against his very human back.

“Hold on tight,” he said, and I hugged him with all my might. He might still be a hallucination but I wasn’t going to take the chance.

He told me his name was Rowan and that they had been searching for me a while now, having been alerted by Headmistress McGonagall. I told him to turn right around and take me to the other end of the earth. Then explained what I had been doing in the forest. Rowan stopped, made me show him the flower, and said I was really lucky, in a hundred years no one had seen it grow. He was sure my Dad would appreciate it.

In turn, I asked him about centaur babies.

One thing I had always wondered about centaur babies was their heads. Human babies could not hold their heads up for weeks because their necks were pathetic, but foals were able to run around moments after birth and it always made me imagine centaur babies running around with flapping heads. “Can I see your babies?”

I had asked Dad how it worked years ago, and he said I should ask a centaur if ever I met one. He had also said he would like to see their face when I did. I think he had been joking about the last part. Sitting on his back, I was not able to see Rowan’s expression, but I explained my curiosity while he galloped us through the forest.

Rowan did not mind, and though he had no babies to show—for they were long-lived and babies were few and far between—he explained the differences in their spines made up for the human part, but their growth was slow and babies were carried for quite a while, more similar to humans than horses. Too soon we were at the forest edge where he stopped and gave a piercing whistle.

Bat Dad appeared with a loud crack in front of us. “Albus!”

I tumbled off Rowan’s back and into his arms and was nearly crushed in his fierce hug.

“Don’t ever do this again!” Dad choked out. “I was worried sick!”

“I won’t!”

We thanked Rowan. Dad apparated us to right outside the castle grounds, where we had to walk the rest of the way, and cast a shield around the both of us when the storm did its best to bowl us over. I was too old to be carried but he did it anyway. All the way back to our rooms. 

“I'm sorry!” I told him, hugging his neck. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Albus.” He squeezed me tighter. “No matter what happened, there’s no reason to ever run away—”

“What? I did not run away, who said I ran away?”

* * *

Much, much later, I sat bundled in a warm heap of blankets on our sofa, my ears steaming from a Pepper-Up, scarfing down sandwiches.

Recriminations were done with. Bat Dad had blown up and cooled down and blown up again. I cried. Then he repeated it once more. I cried again. Then he apologised. I apologised, and cried some more. 

He now sat next to me, staring in awe at his Christmas gift.

It was a day early, but Rowan had said I had better give it anyway, if I waited until tomorrow the plant would have died. So really, it was a good thing I had gotten lost, needing the centaur to find me, I would not have known otherwise, imagine going through all of that for nothing. He also said it might just appease some of Dad’s wrath. If I met Rowan again I would be sure to tell him it didn’t.

Dad tore his eyes away from the evil gift. “Return my watch, if you please.”

“I’m back to being supervised, right?”

“Until you’re old and grey.”

***

_The end.  
Thanks for reading!_


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